


It's Not Terrible At All

by hitokiri



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam Winchester, Bottom Sam wesson, Dominant Dean, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, M/M, Top Dean Smith, Top Dean Winchester, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Sam Winchester, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24390046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitokiri/pseuds/hitokiri
Summary: Dean is plagued by his memories of the night he spent with Sam Wesson as Dean Smith. Sam doesn't share those memories... until he does.
Relationships: Dean Smith/Sam Wesson, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 235





	It's Not Terrible At All

**Author's Note:**

> I really just wanted Swesson to become Wincest. I suck at titles.
> 
> posted on tumblr May 11, 2020.

_Deft hands remove the tacky yellow polo, revealing flawless tanned skin slick with sweat, a moan of “Dean” falling from parted pink lips, kiss swollen_.

Dean wakes up with a hiss, sitting up in the motel room bed. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and his chest is heaving from the dream he was having. _Nightmare_ , he tries to correct, but knows that’s not true. He looks down and sees the thin blanket is slightly tented and he growls in frustration, looking over at the clock and pointedly not past it towards Sam.

4:27 AM the digital clock on the nightstand tells him and he resigns himself to another sleepless night. He gets up and heads for the shower just knowing it’s going to be a long day.

The cold water doesn’t help his erection all that much with those visions swimming around in his head, both turning him on and turning his stomach at the same time. He remembers how it felt, Sam under him. He remembers the breathy way his brother -- no, _not_ his brother, a _different_ Sam, though deep down he knows it was still _his_ Sam -- would moan his name.

They woke up like Sandover never happened and, well, to Sam it never did. Sam didn’t have the _honor_ of meeting Zachariah. Sam isn’t tainted with the memories of Dean pushing him down face first onto _Dean Smith’s_ desk and fucking him raw. Though Sam felt it, Dean knows. He saw the way Sam hissed in pain when he first sat up upon waking, the weird limp he walked with, and the careful way he’d lower himself into the passenger seat of the Impala. And he hated himself for not being able to apologize when Sam said, “I think I pulled something, because I- it just hurts.”

Four days later and he still hates himself.

Four days later and he’s still having wet dreams -- _memories_ \-- of their coupling, like a teenage boy crushing on his hot teacher. He’s harbored these feelings for Sam for so long and all it took was one meddling winged dickhead and all of it comes crashing down.

He wishes Zachariah took his memories because then he wouldn’t have to remember that getting what he’s wanted all along was just a one time deal. The angels are doing more harm than good and Dean wants them gone.

Every time he closes his eyes he sees Sammy pushing his ass back, begging Dean for more. Sees the way Sam’s big, skinny hands grip the opposite side of the desk as Dean pounds into him from behind, hands that aren’t littered with callouses from gun wielding gripping Sam’s lithe hips and bruising him, leaving his mark for days.

Dean almost came in his pants when he saw the bruises on Sam the next morning as Sam got dressed. Luckily for Dean, the motel didn’t have big enough mirrors for Sam to look at his hips after showering or he’d have questions Dean can never answer.

_“You’re such a good boy, aren’t you?” Dean Smith asks, lips centimetres away from Sam Wesson’s. He can feel his breath fanning over his lips as he pants. Sam’s backed against Dean’s desk, partially sitting but still fully clothed, and Dean presses a knee against Sam’s erection. The kid from tech support hisses, his chest arching as he tries to gain friction, but Dean holds still, just keeping pressure. “Are you going to be my good boy, Sam?”_  


“--ean!”  


_“Yes, yes, Mr. Smith, please just--”_  


_Trailing a finger over Sam’s flushed cheek, he says, “What did I tell you, Sam? Call me--”  
_

“DEAN!”  


Dean startles out of his reverie and looks over at Sam, shocked that he’s remembering in the middle of the day. He blinks at Sam then asks, “What?”

“Dude, I’ve been calling your name for like five minutes. Are you okay?”  


_Am I okay_ , he thinks, wishing he could just snap, _No because I’m imagining holding you down and fucking you like I did in the alternate world you don’t remember_.

“I’m fine, man, just tired. What’d you find?”  


Sam seems to visibly relax at the mention of the case they’re working. “So get this...”

~ ! ~

Dean wakes with a start but not with an erection or from a dream. He’s not panting or sweating. What the hell woke him up?

“Please...”  


His head turns so fast his neck protests but Sam sounds like he’s in pain and big brother instincts always kick in when Sam’s in pain. “Sammy?” he asks softly.

“Dean... please...”  


Dean stops moving to get off the bed, one foot on the floor; he’s frozen, eyes locked on Sam’s sleeping form. Sam’s sweating, his hair matted to his forehead, and his chest is rising and falling at a more rapid pace, panting. His thin fingers grip the blanket pulled up to his chest.

And he just moaned Dean’s name.

“Sam?” he cautions, moving slow. His left foot comes off the bed to meet his right and he stands. The closer to Sam he gets the better he can see him. He’s got his lower lip trapped between his teeth and his whole body seems to be wracked by tremors, but it’s only when he’s standing right above him that he sees it, sees what’s got Sam moaning.  


Sam’s hard, and there’s a wet patch growing on the blanket right above the tent and Dean has to take a deep breath to calm himself before he does something stupid. Sam’s a guy, and they’ve been sharing a room for _years_ , it’s not like he’s never seen Sammy have a wet dream before. He just- Sam’s never called out _Dean’s_ name before.

“Oh god, Dean- _Dean_ \- I need you, _please_ \--”  


_“Dean, I need you- please!”_  


“Fuck,” he groans, running a hand through his short hair and messing it up more than the pillow did. “You’re killing me here, kiddo.” If he wasn’t having memory flashes of Sam Wesson writhing under him and saying the exact words his baby brother is moaning in his sleep right now, it wouldn’t be as bad. But _god_ , Dean is yearning.  


There’s an unspoken bro code: don’t wake a guy up from a wet dream; it’s just fucking weird. But he can’t listen to Sam moan like this anymore or he’ll do something they will both regret.

He shakes Sam’s shoulder, relishes in the heat radiating off of him, and Sam startles awake with a yelp. His eyes are frantic as he searches for the enemy before landing on Dean, lust blown and wide. Dean licks his lips and lets go of his shoulder, “Hey, hey, you’re okay, Sammy,” he soothes, backing up to sit on the edge of his own bed. “You’re safe. You were just, uh- dreaming.”

Sam still looks panicked, eyes wide and almost scared. He says, voice cracking, “I- we were- oh god. _Dean_.”

Dean knows exactly what Sam is sputtering about but he plays dumb, asks, “What were you dreaming about?” despite his better judgement.

Sam seems to deflate at that, shoulders sagging as he whispers, “You’d never wanna look at me again.” He fiddles with the blanket. “I’m gonna go take a shower,” he says and proceeds to get off the bed on the _other side_ , presumably to hide his obvious erection.

It isn’t until he hears the water running that he lies back down. If Sam’s getting his memories of Sandover back in his dreams, Dean is screwed.

~ ! ~

A new development is Sam’s cheeks pinking when Dean gets too close. He teases Sam because that’s what he’s supposed to do as a big brother, but now it seems to be affecting Sam in a completely different way. He’s been woken up from a dead sleep three times now with Sam’s moaning, and every morning he’s rock hard as he watches his little brother come in his sleep pants.

He particularly loves when Sam’s chest arches almost completely off the bed, hair fanned out over the pillow, as he comes with Dean’s name on his tongue. He feigns sleep while Sam gets up to shower at the ass crack of dawn, and Dean rubs one out to Sam’s moans playing over and over in his head.

If this keeps up, he’s not going to be able to hold off any longer.

~ ! ~

“I, uh--” Sam’s got that gorgeous blush on his cheeks again. “I think I’m gonna get a separate room tonight, Dean. I- I’m not feeling well and I don’t think you need to hear me getting sick all night...”  


If by _getting sick_ he means _moaning Dean’s name all night_ Sam couldn’t be more wrong.

“Sammy, when have we ever got separate rooms? Even when you had the flu I didn’t leave you. C’mon.” He tugs on Sam’s jacket sleeve and pulls his little brother against his side to make sure he can’t get away. “Just let big brother take care of you. I always know what to do with you, don’t I?”  


If possible, Sam’s blush turns a deeper scarlet and Dean smirks when his head is turned away. Oh yeah, he’s still got it.

His dreams stopped right around the time Sam’s started, like a transference, but Dean’s not complaining. He’s enjoying the view of Sammy coming every night to the thought of Dean fucking him on an office desk. If it gets any worse, Sam might seek out _real_ Dean’s attention, and Dean is -- not so patiently -- waiting. He’s not gonna let Sammy go on like this for too much longer. Dean’s dick can’t handle how frequently he’s jerking off.

~ ! ~

This time he’s not awoken by Sammy’s sweet little moans. He’s awoken by the bed dipping behind him and he self-consciously reaches for the knife he’s got under his pillow, until he smells Sam’s sweat and girly shampoo. He relaxes back into the mattress and waits.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, sounding lost.  


Not moving, ever the blase big brother, he asks, “Yeah, Sammy?”

“I keep- I keep having these dreams and they- Dean, they feel so _real_ \- I don’t know what to think anymore.” He sounds so lost, so broken that Dean rolls half onto his back and looks up at his little brother. “I know this is going to sound gross because we’re brothers and I’m sorry but I- I can’t hold it in anymore, Dean.” He takes a deep breath, like he’s psyching himself up to talk about what Dean already knows about. “I’m having dreams about you. And me. And--”  


Without thinking, Dean reaches a hand up and cups Sam’s _very warm_ cheek, startling his baby brother. “I know, kiddo,” he soothes. “I know. I’ve had them, too.”

“You- what?”  


“I’m gonna sound like I’m crazy but hear me out, Sam.” He sits up completely so they’re face to face, hand never leaving Sam’s pinkwarm cheek. “They aren’t dreams. They’re memories.”  


Sam stares at him blankly a moment then laughs awkwardly, says, “Yeah sure, Dean,” and moves to get up from the bed, but Dean’s hand on his cheek moves to grip the back of Sam’s neck and pulls him in so they’re nose to nose. “Dean--”

“Remember the morning you woke up sore? When you couldn’t sit right for a few days?”  


“Yeah, I- no, _no way_.”  


“Yeah, sweetheart,” he replies, the pet name just rolling off his tongue like he’s said it his whole life. “Yeah.”  


“Oh god.”  


Dean keeps him grounded by squeezing the back of his neck. “But listen, Sammy, I don’t regret it, and I don’t want you to, either. I think it’s something we could have.” He smiles softly, making sure Sam’s eyes are on his as he starts to lean in. “If it’s something you want, that is.” Sam meets him halfway and they share their first _real_ kiss.

Sam doesn’t go back to his own bed that night.


End file.
